


Desperate Sloppy Needy

by leestone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Codependent Winchesters, Dean's a Piece, Demon Blood Addiction, Fighting As Foreplay, M/M, Multi, OCD, Overactive Cock Disorder, PWP, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Sam's Terrible Life, Slut!sam, WIP, s4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-06-07 22:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6827023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leestone/pseuds/leestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam had forgotten how to play the straight man to the slut. They were both sluts now, a pair of dirty cookie fortunes: every idea ended in bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The demon who called Dean Winchester _desperate, sloppy,_ and _needy_ had clearly never watched Dean's brother Sam in bed. This was a shame, since Sam enjoyed fucking demons almost as much as he enjoyed drinking their blood and would have derived a _desperate, sloppy_ excitement from another demon witnessing the act.

Sam had pictured this scenario. He could picture doing everything since Dean had gone to Hell. Everything was easy now that nothing was possible.        

Sam Winchester knew himself for a desperate, sloppy, needy lay. He was a biter, a squirmer, a nail-digger and a hair-puller. Sam moaned as he kissed. His hips and hands were never still; his legs stirred continually over the edges of beds, which always seemed a foot or so too short. When he was close to orgasm Sam lost himself. He got ungentle, rode his lovers like horses. They seldom complained: His greed for pleasure was so consuming that they were left shaken and speechless, limp and wet and wondering. Above all he left them feeling _used_ , intimately, comprehensively used, as though sensation were an ore beneath their skins that he mined with a jealous hand, fuel for his furnace alone. Their own sensations were incidental and intense. The people Sam fucked waited days to wash themselves.      

Sex with Sam happened in roadside motel rooms or in the offices, lofts, and studios of afflicted civilians. The civilians were possessed by demons, lycanthropy, bewitched artifacts, and Sam, in that order. He broke their curses and then broke himself inside them. Afterwards he recoiled, already edging toward the door (or ushering them out), abandoning them with fake phone numbers and purpling bruises on their nipples, necks, and flanks.

Once he was gone, he stayed gone. Sam was a hunter by vocation and nature. He never escaped without salting the remains of his encounters.

Sex with Sam might also happen wherever his demon familiar appeared to him against the shelves of collegiate library stacks, on cracked marble tombs, in the backseat of the Impala. One night she had materialized in the ICU where Sam lay, bled pale from a severed femoral artery. She locked the door and hiked her skirt and slashed her own thigh in that very spot, swung herself over Sam to suckle his leg wound while he drank. Every part of him stiffened under her, tissue knitting and swelling, until he broke off with a wet red groan. He tore her panties off, delved again, licked up and finished her with his tongue; she arched like a cat and slid her mouth over him till he spilled, swearing. 

Oregon. Nevada. New Mexico. Louisiana. No place Sam went was too far. No place was far enough.  

In bed, always the chaos; always loss of control and breathless, utterly abandoned grasping at selfish ecstasies, his every half-conceived obscene desire bitten, licked, and scored onto the anonymous flesh he galloped beneath him.

Out of bed his world stood at right angles. He rose at dawn, scraped his face smooth, buttoned his flannels to the neck. His hair was tidy, his books alphabetized in their zippered case. He fed himself with mechanical precision. He obeyed exact speed limits. He held his shoulders square. At night Sam's bedframe jounced and skidded; but his shoes stood spotless under it, perfectly aligned, waiting to walk him out into another morning of another day in the world without Dean.


	2. Chapter 2

One day, the door opened onto Dean.

Sam hadn't learned a word for losing him. He could call himself an “orphan” _._  Ring shopping for Jess had entitled him to fumble with the word “widower”; it was a cinder in his mouth but at least it had an Oxford American entry. It struck Sam cruel that no term existed for a person who had lost his brother, a brother who had been father and friend and rival and hero all at once. His last vestige of a cleaner life. The only word Sam knew for that was “Dean”, so that was what Sam said when the knock came and Dean stood there, breathing, shining and scarless, God's perfect smartass, so irrepressibly himself, just... _Dean_. He was on Sam's last nerve within five minutes.

But the tension between them was different, somehow. Translated.

The chemical change of it tingled Sam's limbs. The universe had righted itself by restoring Dean, the universe was great, but _Sam_ was beyond repair; he felt it in his sudden dry-mouthed awareness of his brother's shoulders, the trim solid lines of Dean's thighs and ass inside his jeans. When they embraced, Dean's familiar Ivory soap scent hit him like a hallucinogen. He could practically feel his tongue drag up the faint stubble on the underside of Dean's jaw, hear the low hoarse rasp Dean would make when Sam sank his teeth into the flesh where neck met shoulder.

Sam had forgotten how to play the straight man to the slut. They were both sluts now, a pair of dirty cookie fortunes: every idea ended in bed. 

 _Dean in bed_. He'd been thirteen years old the first time he'd witnessed it.  Dean in the throes, all the mouthwatering mystery and allure of sex bound up in that gleaming gold-whiskered idol of his childhood. Sam had cracked their bedroom door one afternoon to find the co-captain of the varsity swim team sprawled naked on a naked mattress, suit skinned to her knees, tits shivering pink as Dean rode her with lazy strokes.

Sam had weathered the storm, left the memories behind as relics of pubescence, that awkward, abortive taboo abandoned with relief. It had been years since the smell of Dean stirred anything in him but affection or chagrin. But waves from it walloped him today. Illicit images rushed back thundering under Sam's skin, each one fresh and scorching as though he'd never encountered it before, never fled shaking to smuggle it into his cold bedroll and the furtive comfort of his own hand after lights-out.   

Grown into his skin and his pleasures, now, and shaken to the bone, Sam probed for their bond. The old fraternal blindness that allowed one to observe with detachment. To take beauty in stride. In its place he felt a surge of terrible possessiveness, a hot acquisitive twinge. An _entitlement_. 

And that was bad, just feeling that itch in his palms was criminal; but what, oh god—a thrill slackened his leg muscles—what would Dean do if he _smelled_ it on him? The screwing and the bloodsucking, those profane exorcisms? Sam imagined evidence of his secret, subterranean life scrawled everywhere around them—in the loose hips of the demon Dean watched walk out, in the musky sheets, across his own face and hands—and the guilt broke him out in a delirious sweat.

He wondered if he looked new to Dean, as new as Dean looked through the compulsive sexual calculation fogging Sam now. He stared at Dean's mouth. _Needy_ , Sam decided. _Desperate._ _I could give you Hell._

He shocked himself with these ideas. But he couldn't undiscover them, and four weeks later Dean was meeting Sam's flat aggressive stares with his own.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sam waited for late August, for the thickest crazymaking dog days of a Southern swelter to hammer their nerves taut. Then he picked a fight.

Hand-to-hand had been the catalyst for every major turning point in their lives, and this one proved no exception.

Sam slammed Dean against the side of a motel outside Lake Charles. He felt the skin of his knuckles split on brick, the pain a sweet tight thrum in his belly. He wrenched Dean's arm behind his back and shoved himself full-length against his brother's body, pinning them both so that his breath blew in hot, explosive pants across Dean's ear. Dean bucked for leverage and the contact snapped Sam's head back; he screwed his mouth shut on a groan, slammed Dean again, and took a head-butt to the chin.

He reeled backwards. The tang of blood on Sam's split lip, the welts where Dean's nails had scored his wrists and cheek, the crush of his weight on a warm body as he plied and heaved it to his will—it was all too maddening and too familiar. Danger impulses misfired into belly heat until his knees threatened to fold and he wanted only to haul Dean down with him.

They grappled and tore. Both were exhausted now, throwing underwater blows that lingered with a weird damper-pedal sensation, hits vibrating like notes. Dean pounded the breath from him until the last line blurred and Sam slid to his knees, limbs liquid and heavy with want, shuddering. Dean's fist twisted in his hair. A Venn diagram of SEX and VIOLENCE eclipsed itself beneath Sam's ribs. He swallowed a mouthful of blood, clenched down around the rage battering like a pulse at his throat. Felt Dean's hand shake as he caught the fire too.

They were just breathing hard and staring now. Whatever Dean saw knocked the fight out of him; when Sam curled a sweaty palm around his wrist, he didn't bat it away. Sam felt his brother's blood hammer under his hand. Dean backed away and the connection held. Said his name just once, just _Sammy_ , but his voice. His voice.

A glance told Sam that they were done with scruple and pretense.

Dean spat, wiped his mouth and walked back into their motel room. He was already stripped to the waist when Sam slammed the door behind them.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Dean looked over long enough for Sam to see his chin jerk and the heat shoot up his neck, his freckled nape, that rocketing flush Sam loved. Then he turned away, just standing quietly across the room.

Sam bared his teeth at Dean's back and skinned his filthy shirt off. It dangled from his fist while he paced their cage, planned his attack, the surest way of dragging Dean onto the bed. Or the floor. Sam liked to fuck on the floor. It was so much easier to pin the other person's wrists.

But Dean surprised him—simply sat on the edge of the bed and waited. His hands were slack beside him. When Sam hesitated he looked back again, eyebrow raised, _So?_

Sam crossed the room in three long strides. He planted himself in front of Dean, midsection thrust aggressively close. Dean spanned the gap with a tilt of his head, wet mouth closing with gentle suction on Sam's abs, his stomach, the jut of hipbone visible above his waistband. He lathed Sam's navel with his tongue, dipped it in; he slid his hands up Sam's back while he kissed and nosed his way down the fine trail of hairs dusting the skin above his fly.

Sam's lips cracked in a mean, sloppy grin when he felt Dean working the button of his jeans right-handed. It took a minute; the fingers were trembling a little. Dean snaked his left hand up between Sam's thighs, forearm cradling the base of Sam's cock, palm splayed over his ass. Dean pressed and rubbed the arm, Sam rocking his hips to the rhythm, head lowered to watch the incredible sweetness pooling in his groin as he rode. Up front, Dean had Sam's pants unzipped enough to edge down the band of his briefs. The tip of Sam's erection poked through and Dean freed both hands to grip Sam lightly at the waist, turned his head and pressed his cheek against it, brushed it with the corner of his mouth, a humid nuzzle—

No, it wasn't—it _couldn't_ happen like that, Sam wouldn't allow it, wouldn't allow himself to be seduced, fondled, another of his brother's lacy conquests. _No_ , and he shoved Dean back on the bed, following the momentum down to straddle him; his knees pinned Dean's arms to his sides and Sam panted, grinning at the size of Dean's eyes as he blinked up at him, at this crazy stranger who had him half-stripped and shaking to be fucked into the mattress. _Look what you died for_ , he thought, dizzy, and drove his mouth down onto Dean's.

He was going for blood from split lips or a broken tooth. What he got instead—what Dean gave silently but with an eagerness that dropped Sam's jaw into their kiss—was something open, yielding, and infinitely tender.

What he got was permission.

Better, more shatteringly, _invitation_ : _Take my mouth, Sam, fill me with your tongue there, yes I don't need my mouth to tell you this_ and _Take my arms—_ arms thathad carried Sam out of fire, oh—and— _Take my chest you've bandaged for broken ribs, take my shoulders that break down doors between us take my feet that follow you anywhere however far you run, take it all, Sam, take me, burn me down and salt whatever's left, just don't stop don't hold back there's nothing you can steal that doesn't belong to you already, nothing, nothing—_

Sam wrenched away, sucking in hot air with helpless drowning gasps. _Not too late to stop this thing_ , and his head bowed at the hateful thought, damp strands of his hair tickling his older brother's nipples. They tightened as Dean pulled a little at Sam's hair, _you okay?_

Sam's mouth opened on Dean's skin, practicing the lie,  _I'm fine_. His tongue lapped at the salt and he turned his face away, felt himself swelling harder and his teeth closing hard on the thing he couldn't spill: _I'm thirsty_.

 


End file.
